


out to sea

by ingeneva



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingeneva/pseuds/ingeneva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up is always a little disorienting. It takes a hazy minute for Zayn to find himself in his body and another to find his place in the world: hotel room, Los Angeles, so close to the sea the breeze in the room smells like saltwater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	out to sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a tiny thing written last June that I figured I'd finally archive somewhere. Apologies for potential typos; this is more or less unedited. Hastily chosen title from 'Landfill' by Daughter.

Waking up is always a little disorienting. It takes a hazy minute for Zayn to find himself in his body and another to find his place in the world: hotel room, Los Angeles, so close to the sea the breeze in the room smells like saltwater. The TV’s still on, and Niall’s fast asleep on top of the sheets next to him. The last thing Zayn remembers is a shared bottle of something fruity between them and channel surfing for something better than a 90s rerun to watch. The taste has gone sour in the back of his throat now.

He stretches just enough to reach his phone on the nightstand. He’s greeted with the time — a bit after four am but his body still feels like it’s caught in limbo between London and New York — and a missed call from his mum not five minutes past. He doesn’t remember hearing it, but it explains why he woke up with _Kick, Push_ on the edge of his dream.

He’s pushing talk before he thinks about it too much. He hasn’t talked to his mum in a couple weeks for longer than a smoke break, and he misses her, misses home. Traveling’s wild and everything, but there’s nothing like waking up at four am in America to make his homesickness set in. He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to the strangeness of it: cars on the wrong side of the road, the faces on the banknotes, the lackluster cups of tea. Sometimes even the rain doesn’t feel the same.

The phone rings five times before his mum picks up. “Hello?” she says, absent and polite.

“Hey, mum,” Zayn says, but half the syllables get caught in his throat.

“Oh, Zayn, hello,” she replies. “You didn’t have to call me back. I only realized afterward what time it must be there. You need your sleep.”

“It’s alright, I’ve been sleeping.”

“I can tell,” she says. “You sound terrible.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. He clears his throat twice, but it still feels rough. “Might be getting sick.”

“Bit of a cold?”

"Yeah, maybe,” Zayn says. His mum sighs, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He’s never been great at talking on the phone, even with his mum. It requires him to keep up his half of the conversation, when all he really wants to do is listen to her voice for a little while.

Thirty seconds feel like a hazy hour when they pass, and Niall snuffles a little in his sleep. Zayn squints down at him. Niall’s still wearing all of his clothes, minus his shoes; even his hat made a valiant effort to stay on, but it’s resting a few inches from his head. Zayn picks it up and sets it down gently on top of his hair. Niall sleeps on, drooling a little on the duvet.

“How are you, otherwise, love?” his mum asks, quietly. “How’s America treating you?”

“It’s good,” Zayn says, looking up at the ceiling. “Big.”

“Very descriptive,” she quips.

Zayn tries to scoff at her, but it turns into a cough. “You mean you haven’t been keeping up with us? Set my name up on a Google alert or whatever?” he asks, making a half-assed attempt to sit up. He’s awake enough to feel quite gross about it now, and he could use about a litre of water.

“Your sisters keep me updated.”

“Bet they just tell you the shit,” Zayn mumbles, and it’s only when he shifts his legs that he realizes Niall’s woken up. Barely, if the heavy droop of his eyelids says anything, but he yawns and turns onto his side. Zayn tells him, “It’s early still, go back to sleep,” because Niall’s a weirdly anxious sleeper. He assumes he’s late for everything, no matter when or where he wakes up.

“Where are you goin’?” Niall asks.

“I’m thirsty,” Zayn says. “Going to get a Gatorade or something from the vending machine. You want anything?”

“Hmm,” Niall replies and curls a little tighter into himself.

It’s not a yes, but Zayn’s pretty sure he’s never said no to anything digestible in his life. He’ll grab something extra, just in case.

He doesn’t realize how quiet his mum’s gotten until he’s stuffing his feet into a pair of sneakers and sneaking out into the hall, and he can just hear her static breathing. “What’re you doing?” he asks. “It’s noon there, isn’t it?”

“I’m waiting for your dad to come home so we can go to the store,” she says, and after a pause, “Was that Niall?”

“What?” Zayn asks, even though he understands what she’s asking a fraction of a second later. “Yeah.”

“How is he?”

“Good,” Zayn says.

“Good,” his mum says.

Zayn hums in agreement and tries to remember the right way to turn to find the vending machines. He only saw them briefly the first time they came to the hotel, and this hallway seems never-ending.

“The two of you seem close,” she says, suddenly.

“We’re kind of in a band,” Zayn tells her. “I think it’s part of the contract or something.”

“Yes,” she says, and it sounds like she’s smiling, “but.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know you guys were still sharing rooms.”

“We’re not,” Zayn says, tucking his arm over his torso. There’s something about the tone of her voice that’s making him feel defensive. “He just fell asleep there, is all.”

“It’s sweet,” she says.

“Sure.”

“You used to hate sharing your bed when you were younger,” she tells him. “And now—”

Her pause lasts for a couple seconds too long, and Zayn stops walking. He’s not finding anything but more doors, and he can’t say for sure what his room number is, and it’s too early for any of this. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, love,” his mum says.

“Then why are we talking about it?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

She exhales, and it feels like the conversation has taken a turn he can’t follow. It still makes him feel weird, anxious and overwhelmed suddenly, like after a creak in the middle of the night. “I just want to make sure you’re happy,” she says. “It’s not easy to be your mum when you’re so far away.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” she replies, “but if you ever — you can tell me anything, did you know? Just because you’re not home anymore doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what’s going on in your life.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes I worry you don’t,” she says.

“I know, mum,” Zayn replies, and the anchor in his stomach hasn’t gone away.

“Okay, then. Good,” she says, and he can hear her sniffling on the other end. “Your dad’s home now. Do you want to talk to him a bit?”

“I should probably go back to sleep,” Zayn says, staring down at his feet in the incandescent lighting. They’re Niall’s shoes; they pinch his toes a little. “Tell him I love him, though. Tell the girls, too.”

"I will.”

“Okay,” Zayn says. “I love you, too.”

She makes kissing noises into the phone. “Come home soon,” she says, even though they both know the band won’t be back in the UK until July. “We miss you.”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies, quietly.

“Now back to bed with you,” his mum says, and Zayn nods and stands there with the phone pressed against his ear for a another minute because he doesn’t feel like saying goodbye yet. “Zayn?”

“Hmm?”

"Tell Niall hi for us, would you?”

Zayn clears his throat, says, “Yeah, alright.”

“Good,” his mum says, then, “Sweet dreams, love.”

She hangs up the phone before he gets a chance to say anything back. He checks the time — four-fifteen — and then he tucks his phone into his sweats, retraces the route back to the room. The door’s still open a crack. He nudges it the rest of the way and quietly shuts it behind him. Niall’s still sprawled out in the middle of the bed, but he’s pulled half of the duvet over him.

Zayn just looks at him for a moment before he toes the sneakers off and slips back into bed. “Hey,” he whispers, squeezing Niall’s side. “You’re hogging the blankets.”

“Keepin’ them warm,” Niall corrects, pulling it tighter over himself.

“It’s not keeping me warm.”

“You weren’t here,” Niall says, but it only takes him a few seconds before he rolls over, pulling the other side of the duvet with him. Zayn blinks at him in the dark, feels the knock of Niall’s knees against his thigh and the heat of his breath against his shoulder. The blanket barely covers him, but he just lies there, aware of Niall’s proximity and how four am in America doesn’t make it feel strange at all.


End file.
